Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘Yes. I wonder why he is here,’ Simon said.

‘I have a deeply unpleasant feeling that we shall soon find out,’ Baldwin said dejectedly.

Thomas thrust the last of his belongings into his small sack and bound his rolled blankets to it, before washing his hands, soaking the bloody rags to remove them.

Christ Jesus but they hurt! The left hand was marginally less painful. He’d grabbed the rope less hard with that, but the right was dreadful. Every time he moved that hand he broke the scabs again.

He rewrapped the linen bandages, flexing his fingers once or twice with a wince, and then threw his pack over his back and marched from his shed towards the Fissand Gate. He was going to get away from here now . There was nothing left for him here. The deaths of Nicholas as well as Henry would soon be laid at his door, and he had no intention of waiting around for that to happen.

There were some men lounging at the gate, and Thomas saw three of them eye him. So, instead of continuing, he walked round past the conduit and charnel, and then hurried along, concealed by the chapel itself, until he reached the Church of St Mary Major. There he stopped and hid, panting slightly, to check on what was happening.

Sure enough, the three men weren’t lounging now, they were pelting along at full tilt, one of them swearing at losing ‘that mother-swyving churl’. Thomas edged around the wall of the church as they ran down, one man yelling that he must have headed for the Bear Gate. Thomas immediately walked back towards Fissand.

This city was cursed, he thought to himself as he approached the gate. He stopped, turned and stared at the Charnel Chapel. It was a bleak, nasty building, he thought. Same sort of size as Lecchelade’s house, but without the charm. It was not even built of good stone, but had been thrown up hurriedly. Anyone could see that the place was made as a gesture, nothing more. He wondered whether Dean John Pycot had ever cared about the building … but the daft sod had probably never seen it, had he? He’d ordered its construction as a reparatory deed, hoping that it might lead to his reassimilation into the Cathedral’s Chapter, but he had failed in that wish. He’d taken his punishment without demur and left to go to his monastery as a monk.

Thomas hefted his bag, and felt the tears prickle at his eyes. This place had destroyed him. His father, once a familiar face to all in the city, a man of honour and integrity who taught Thomas all he knew, had been hanged after the murder on the orders of the King. The shame and remorse which had overwhelmed Thomas when he realised how badly he had betrayed not only himself but also his father, had lingered throughout his entire lifetime. He had hoped it would be gone by now, but no. There was nothing but shame and destruction for him here. Those three men had proved that.

If he had taken the shortest road out of the Close, walking out by the Bear Gate and leaving the city by the South Gate, he might have missed the guards, but that would mean passing under the Southern Gate’s arch again, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to do that. He’d be tempted to look up, and as he did so, see again in his mind’s eye the body of his father swinging from his rope. No, rather than that, he’d thought he’d go out by the North or East Gates. In truth he hadn’t decided yet.

At the Fissand Gate he threw a coin at the waiting beggar, then stood at the edge of the road, peering up at the High Street for a long moment before setting off. This city was not his any more. It was a foreign place, filled with danger.

The High Street was full as usual. There was a herd of cattle ambling along the way, two dogs snapping at their heels, a man behind with a great staff, whistling at them. For a moment Thomas wished he was also a drover — a man in control of his life, measuring each day in the distance travelled, knowing that there was an end to his journeying. That would be a restful life, far better than his present wanderings. And now he must set off once more. He had come here hoping that at last he might find some peace and rest, but there was nothing for him here but death and despair.

When the cattle had passed, he had to pick his gate, and although he turned right to face east, he never quite managed to set off. Instead, his eyes were drawn again to the north. It was in that direction that he would find more work, perhaps. The Master Mason had spoken reverentially of castles being constructed up there; the Despensers had had several of their castles thrown down during the wars with the Lords Marcher, and there were opportunities there for a man with skill at hewing stone, so Thomas had heard.

It also meant he would pass close to Sara’s house. That was in some way an appealing thought. He dare not see her, but just knowing that he was close to her one last time would be good. He couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling today. Wretched to think that she had entertained her man’s murderer? Perhaps even repelled by the thought that she had consumed his food and drink. The poor woman was probably distraught.

He recalled her face when her son told her: it became a mask of terror. In that moment Thomas knew that any affection she might have felt for him was gone for ever. He couldn’t hope to win her, not when he had killed off her Saul. It was a ridiculous dream , nothing more. And in any case, what could he do here, in the city which saw his father hanged? Exeter held nothing for him, only memories … and memories didn’t keep a belly filled.

Thomas glanced behind him. There was a figure running up around the corner of St Mary Major.

It was enough to persuade him to get moving. He set his face to the north, shrugged his pack more comfortably on his back, and started on his way.

In the Charnel Chapel, Sir Peregrine was studying the body of the saddler. ‘You may remove him now. There’s nothing to be learned in here, especially since there have been so many men walking about in here.’

‘Yes, Sir Peregrine,’ Matthew said. ‘It has been terrible, what with this man, then the friar being murdered, and the stone mason too. What a time!’

‘I shall wish to see those bodies, too,’ the knight said. ‘And we shall have to hold an inquest.’

‘The friar has already been taken back to the Friary,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s impossible for us to hold their dead for them.’

‘Why? I’d have thought they’d be glad enough for you to hold their corpses until they were ready to take them and conduct the funeral.’

‘Not they!’ Matthew smiled. ‘The friars have always been rather at loggerheads with us over death and burials. They have insisted on being able to bury people, but the Cathedral has the right to bury all the city’s dead. We have an arrangement now, because the Friary started a ridiculous argument with us a while ago, demanding that they should be able to hold the funeral services for people whom they called their benefactors. Stupid, of course, but there it is.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sir Peregrine said absently. He was watching the three lay assistants to the grave-digger lifting the body. It was more than a little odorous now, even in the cool of the chapel, and Sir Peregrine was reminded of battlefields in autumn-time as he smelled the sickly sweet scent of rotting blood. ‘I heard about that. It was poor Sir Henry Ralegh, wasn’t it? He was taken by the Cathedral although he had stated that he wanted to be buried by the friars.’

‘What he wanted really isn’t the point,’ Matthew remonstrated. ‘A man who died in this city is the Cathedral’s.’

‘Absolutely! There is a lot of money involved,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘And when the Cathedral had performed the service, you took the body down to the Friary.’